Happy Holidays, iblamebroadway!
Title: A Totally Organic Experience
For: iblamebroadway
By: the_leechwife
Rating: NC-17
London in December sparkled with myriad crystals; there was a shimmer of frost on every bare tree, a twinkling glaze on every soot-stained cobble and a picturesque dusting of ice on every grubby urchin. Nevertheless, Vauxhall Gardens, which had been until lately the New Spring Gardens, were still green, and still busy.
Captain Crowley, the dashing redcoat1, struck a rakish pose with his shako under one arm as he waited by the entrance to the pleasure gardens. A tangible aura of disreputability radiated from him, enhanced, if anything, by the uniform, and every doe-eyed filly in every assembly room in town was entirely prohibited from being seen with him, despite their best efforts.
Happily for Crowley, he was not here for the sake of the totty. Or rather, he was, though it was totty of quite a different sort, and came in the form of a Mr. Fell, who was, on this day, dressed in the sober black of a curate, with a white collar and grey hose, and looking absurdly innocent. The clergyman had the honest blue eyes, blond curls and bookish, genial beneficence of an angel. Subsequently, every mother within thirty miles of the small parish town (where he was temporarily filling after the dismissal of his predecessor on a tide of scandal) was trying to marry one or more of her daughters off to him. He smiled an unguarded smile when he recognised Crowley, who smiled back despite himself, and they clasped hands warmly.
"Hello, my dear, best of the season to you."
"Hello, Aziraphale, that is a fantastically ridiculous hat you have on." Crowley tweaked the overly wide brim of Aziraphale’s sorry black hat.
"I might offer you the same compliment," Aziraphale eyed the pompous military headwear dubiously, "I expect there's a lever in your back that operates the nut-cracking mechanism."
Crowley had to concede that it was a very stupid hat.
They had been nearly six months apart, and it had been such a relief to each to find that the other was in town that it had been quite embarrassing. The pair fell into the comfortable half-bicker, half-catch up that was usual to them as they ambled along the row of spindly new trees up to a huge structure, half red brick, half glass misted with condensation. Aziraphale observed that he had thought Crowley was in France, and Crowley said that he had been, but to his dismay he found it full of French people, and Aziraphale elbowed him slightly in half-hearted remonstrance. Crowley let the fingers of his free hand subtly brush Aziraphale's palm and the angel leaned in to him slightly with a sigh.
With a hand on his arm, Crowley steered Aziraphale into the hot house. A wall of sudden warmth hit them as they entered the building, which was brimming with exotic plants of prodigious size. Crowley had been spending a lot of time here since the regiment hit town - it stuck a chord with the vestiges of serpent in him. He was working under the pretence that he was there to encourage the secret assignations that went on anyway, but really just making excuses to be where it was toasty and green. The assignations took care of themselves; such were the numerous shady paths and grottos of the gardens that, as a wise man would one day say, 'a mother could get lost looking for her daughter.'
Crowley knew Aziraphale wouldn't have seen the new tropical garden yet, being as he was completely out of touch, and the demon had been dying to show him.
The air hummed inside the place and everywhere was glossy, swollen foliage. There were huge leaves and curling fronds, and the odd fantastic bloom, a splash of vivid red or orange against the verdant green. There were even a number of parakeets installed, growing fat and smug on the attentions of tourists.
"Oh Crowley, it's marvellous!" beamed Aziraphale, as they wandered along under the leaves.
"Isn't it? I'm thinking of taking a house and getting some of these in there."
Aziraphale smiled at him and decided, "That would suit you very much."
Absently, their hands found each other and their fingers interlaced.
"Now, this is interesting," Crowley gestured to a small sort of grove made by giant ferns, "This is where Miss Anne Vaughn, of the Beverley Vaughns, got her end away with the boy who sells roasted chestnuts outside the turnstile."
"My word." Aziraphale raised his eyebrows, "The things that go on in front of horticulture…"
"And over there," this to a stumpy tree with some faintly suggestive growths just below the leaves, "there is where Mr. Charles Austin secured his legacy with no less than the Mayor of Shrewsbury’s mother."
"And I'm sure you had a hand in this disgrace," The angel gave his companion a canny glance, a smile threatening to break his composure at any moment, "I have no idea why I've missed you, Crowley."
"Missed you too." Crowley hissed, and suddenly pulled Aziraphale off the path and behind some concealing shrubbery.
"Crowley!" Aziraphale admonished, but desire was as clearly marked on his face as it was on Crowley’s.
"Come on now, angel, a little tumble in the undergrowth? Don't tell me you're not tempted." Crowley was smiling, but he did not look very wicked.
They stole a chaste kiss, full of warmth, before Crowley led the angel further into the trees until the pair were completely hidden. Aziraphale giggled and blushed sweetly.
They had found themselves a little sanctuary and, although they could still hear comings and goings, far off and dreamy it seemed, they were not going to be interrupted.
Slowly, savouring the contact, they slipped their arms round each other and sank into a deep, slow kiss. They took their time to taste each other, and to reacquaint themselves with certain curves and angles and secret sweet spots, until they were caught up by the familiar tide of oblivious longing.
Tearing the white clergyman's collar, Crowley unwound it from around Aziraphale's neck and kissed the soft skin he had exposed, earning a gasp of delight and the angel's pale fingers tugging at the large brass buttons of his uniform.
"Oh, ah, mind my regimentals." He managed to quip, in a voice slightly higher than he had meant to use.2
Aziraphale paused and gave Crowley a shaming look.
"Sorry, it just slipped out." He mumbled sheepishly, but Aziraphale was laughing and kissing him, and taking care of all those buttons and buckles of, which there were far too many, with a brush of his fingers.
"My dear, delicious Crowley," the angel sighed, pushing the jacket from Crowley's shoulders, "I really have missed you completely." His hands were up under the demon's shirt, eliciting a plaintive groan.
They slid their hands lower at the same time, moaning into their kiss when their questing fingers found and teased hardness. It fired human blood and ethereal essence and Crowley shoved Aziraphale back against the trunk of an obliging palm. Aziraphale pushed his hips hard against Crowley's, causing intolerable sparks of arousal. In the space of a thought, they were free of the constraints of clothes and their eager bodies pressed naked against each other.
Aziraphale pushed Crowley back for a moment so he could let his wings spread out, which seemed natural here, and Crowley followed suit, so that the next time they kissed and wrapped themselves around each other they were almost totally surrounded by strong white feathers, themselves glittering as if with frost.
There was something very nostalgic in seeing the angel with wings unfurled and hair tousled against a backdrop of lush greenery, Crowley reflected hazily, although the stockings that, for reason of kink, Crowley had taken the liberty of not divesting Aziraphale of somewhat detracted from the impression.
Aziraphale admired the passionate amber of the demon’s eyes, embers that glowed as intensely as when he had met him, worlds ago. He looked quite at home here, quite the agent of temptation, quite irresistible. Aziraphale hooked his leg around Crowley's and pulled him forward so that they each felt hard heat pressing insistent against their stomachs, which was the angel's way of demanding more.
Miraculously, the chaise longue that had reposed until a moment before in the nearby drawing room of a prominent member of parliament, found itself suddenly and conveniently relocated under a large palm tree in the hot house. A moment later, the beleaguered article was the recipient of a soft angelic behind as Aziraphale was pushed down onto it, wings splayed beneath him, and a lust-addled Crowley lowered himself on top.
Drunk on each other as they were, their next urgent kiss bordered on clumsy and their hands were hasty to communicate the desperation of their bodies. In their heightened state, every touch was a full-body sensation, licking in flames from the soles of their feet to the tips of their wings, making insufferable promises. Crowley knelt up and hitched Aziraphale's hips higher against his own, enjoying the feel of the decent layer of angel padding under his hands, and Aziraphale clamped his legs firmly around Crowley's waist, bracing himself against the arm of the sofa.
Crowley laughed drunkenly and let his head loll back as he entered the ruthlessly compliant Aziraphale, who arched back and rocked his pelvis forward to bring Crowley deeper.
After the initial arrhythmic writhing of fantastic first contact, the lovers falteringly found their stride and a blinding intoxication started building in waves. Aziraphale reached down to touch himself but Crowley batted his hand away - he preferred to take care of that himself. He began stroking the angel in time to his thrusts and the bucking of Aziraphale's hips, and leaned forward precariously for a difficult but nevertheless exquisite kiss.
The smooth rhythm began to jar as they came together and a dazzling climax shuddered through them, blurring their surroundings to a shimmering heat-haze and shaking awareness out of alignment.
When it had wracked through them and left the pair dazed and helpless, Crowley fell forward onto Aziraphale and Aziraphale kissed him on his sweaty head and stroked his back and his wings. They kissed again, lazily, and took their time to regain themselves.
“Smashing.” Aziraphale sighed, pleasure dripping from him like butter from a crumpet. Crowley laughed breathlessly, too well sated to give the angel's turn of phrase the mocking it called for, but concurred heartily and gave Aziraphale’s ear a nibble.
Clothes were relocated and the couple emerged, grinning foolishly, into the frost of the evening as it dissolved into night.
"Where did you say you're working at the moment?" Crowley asked absently.
"Strood."
"Strood?"
"In Kent."
"Ah. Very… pious in Kent, are they?"
"Oh, yes, very pious. More piety than you could shake a stick at.3
"Sounds dangerous to me."
"It is! They could do with a corrupting influence to test their faith. I mean, it's not much of a challenge for me, preaching to the, aha, choir, is it?"
"No, indeed. I dare say I'd be doing you a favour."
"Of course you would, my dear." Aziraphale smiled at the stars.
And so it was that the regiment were quartered in Strood for the winter, and remained there for three months, owing to a bureaucratic mix up. Similarly, due to unforeseen difficulties, a replacement was not found for the parish curate for those same three months.
There was heavy snow in the south of England that year, but no one came off too much the worse for wear. This with the exception of a few wide-eyed and jittery parakeets at Vauxhall Gardens, who had witnessed quite a scene and would never be entirely the same again.
1. The Captain was of that certain class of officer who looks good at assemblies but is rarely called upon to actually fight. This was not any fault of Crowley’s, rather, it was due to constant administrative mix ups that always ended up with the regiment being stationed in town when the season was fashionable and keeping the peace in sleepy provincial wine-producing towns all summer.
Of course, relations with the French were testy, but as Captain Crowley would be asleep for the duration of the Napoleonic Wars, that hardly concerned him.
2. He was seemingly ignorant of the fact that the noble institution of the Carry On film was not to be invented for another hundred and fifty years.
3. I am not entirely sure if they had the expression 'shake a stick at' in the 1700s, but I shall not be losing any sleep over it.
Happy Holidays, iblamebroadway, from your Secret Author!
For: iblamebroadway
By: the_leechwife
Rating: NC-17
London in December sparkled with myriad crystals; there was a shimmer of frost on every bare tree, a twinkling glaze on every soot-stained cobble and a picturesque dusting of ice on every grubby urchin. Nevertheless, Vauxhall Gardens, which had been until lately the New Spring Gardens, were still green, and still busy.
Captain Crowley, the dashing redcoat1, struck a rakish pose with his shako under one arm as he waited by the entrance to the pleasure gardens. A tangible aura of disreputability radiated from him, enhanced, if anything, by the uniform, and every doe-eyed filly in every assembly room in town was entirely prohibited from being seen with him, despite their best efforts.
Happily for Crowley, he was not here for the sake of the totty. Or rather, he was, though it was totty of quite a different sort, and came in the form of a Mr. Fell, who was, on this day, dressed in the sober black of a curate, with a white collar and grey hose, and looking absurdly innocent. The clergyman had the honest blue eyes, blond curls and bookish, genial beneficence of an angel. Subsequently, every mother within thirty miles of the small parish town (where he was temporarily filling after the dismissal of his predecessor on a tide of scandal) was trying to marry one or more of her daughters off to him. He smiled an unguarded smile when he recognised Crowley, who smiled back despite himself, and they clasped hands warmly.
"Hello, my dear, best of the season to you."
"Hello, Aziraphale, that is a fantastically ridiculous hat you have on." Crowley tweaked the overly wide brim of Aziraphale’s sorry black hat.
"I might offer you the same compliment," Aziraphale eyed the pompous military headwear dubiously, "I expect there's a lever in your back that operates the nut-cracking mechanism."
Crowley had to concede that it was a very stupid hat.
They had been nearly six months apart, and it had been such a relief to each to find that the other was in town that it had been quite embarrassing. The pair fell into the comfortable half-bicker, half-catch up that was usual to them as they ambled along the row of spindly new trees up to a huge structure, half red brick, half glass misted with condensation. Aziraphale observed that he had thought Crowley was in France, and Crowley said that he had been, but to his dismay he found it full of French people, and Aziraphale elbowed him slightly in half-hearted remonstrance. Crowley let the fingers of his free hand subtly brush Aziraphale's palm and the angel leaned in to him slightly with a sigh.
With a hand on his arm, Crowley steered Aziraphale into the hot house. A wall of sudden warmth hit them as they entered the building, which was brimming with exotic plants of prodigious size. Crowley had been spending a lot of time here since the regiment hit town - it stuck a chord with the vestiges of serpent in him. He was working under the pretence that he was there to encourage the secret assignations that went on anyway, but really just making excuses to be where it was toasty and green. The assignations took care of themselves; such were the numerous shady paths and grottos of the gardens that, as a wise man would one day say, 'a mother could get lost looking for her daughter.'
Crowley knew Aziraphale wouldn't have seen the new tropical garden yet, being as he was completely out of touch, and the demon had been dying to show him.
The air hummed inside the place and everywhere was glossy, swollen foliage. There were huge leaves and curling fronds, and the odd fantastic bloom, a splash of vivid red or orange against the verdant green. There were even a number of parakeets installed, growing fat and smug on the attentions of tourists.
"Oh Crowley, it's marvellous!" beamed Aziraphale, as they wandered along under the leaves.
"Isn't it? I'm thinking of taking a house and getting some of these in there."
Aziraphale smiled at him and decided, "That would suit you very much."
Absently, their hands found each other and their fingers interlaced.
"Now, this is interesting," Crowley gestured to a small sort of grove made by giant ferns, "This is where Miss Anne Vaughn, of the Beverley Vaughns, got her end away with the boy who sells roasted chestnuts outside the turnstile."
"My word." Aziraphale raised his eyebrows, "The things that go on in front of horticulture…"
"And over there," this to a stumpy tree with some faintly suggestive growths just below the leaves, "there is where Mr. Charles Austin secured his legacy with no less than the Mayor of Shrewsbury’s mother."
"And I'm sure you had a hand in this disgrace," The angel gave his companion a canny glance, a smile threatening to break his composure at any moment, "I have no idea why I've missed you, Crowley."
"Missed you too." Crowley hissed, and suddenly pulled Aziraphale off the path and behind some concealing shrubbery.
"Crowley!" Aziraphale admonished, but desire was as clearly marked on his face as it was on Crowley’s.
"Come on now, angel, a little tumble in the undergrowth? Don't tell me you're not tempted." Crowley was smiling, but he did not look very wicked.
They stole a chaste kiss, full of warmth, before Crowley led the angel further into the trees until the pair were completely hidden. Aziraphale giggled and blushed sweetly.
They had found themselves a little sanctuary and, although they could still hear comings and goings, far off and dreamy it seemed, they were not going to be interrupted.
Slowly, savouring the contact, they slipped their arms round each other and sank into a deep, slow kiss. They took their time to taste each other, and to reacquaint themselves with certain curves and angles and secret sweet spots, until they were caught up by the familiar tide of oblivious longing.
Tearing the white clergyman's collar, Crowley unwound it from around Aziraphale's neck and kissed the soft skin he had exposed, earning a gasp of delight and the angel's pale fingers tugging at the large brass buttons of his uniform.
"Oh, ah, mind my regimentals." He managed to quip, in a voice slightly higher than he had meant to use.2
Aziraphale paused and gave Crowley a shaming look.
"Sorry, it just slipped out." He mumbled sheepishly, but Aziraphale was laughing and kissing him, and taking care of all those buttons and buckles of, which there were far too many, with a brush of his fingers.
"My dear, delicious Crowley," the angel sighed, pushing the jacket from Crowley's shoulders, "I really have missed you completely." His hands were up under the demon's shirt, eliciting a plaintive groan.
They slid their hands lower at the same time, moaning into their kiss when their questing fingers found and teased hardness. It fired human blood and ethereal essence and Crowley shoved Aziraphale back against the trunk of an obliging palm. Aziraphale pushed his hips hard against Crowley's, causing intolerable sparks of arousal. In the space of a thought, they were free of the constraints of clothes and their eager bodies pressed naked against each other.
Aziraphale pushed Crowley back for a moment so he could let his wings spread out, which seemed natural here, and Crowley followed suit, so that the next time they kissed and wrapped themselves around each other they were almost totally surrounded by strong white feathers, themselves glittering as if with frost.
There was something very nostalgic in seeing the angel with wings unfurled and hair tousled against a backdrop of lush greenery, Crowley reflected hazily, although the stockings that, for reason of kink, Crowley had taken the liberty of not divesting Aziraphale of somewhat detracted from the impression.
Aziraphale admired the passionate amber of the demon’s eyes, embers that glowed as intensely as when he had met him, worlds ago. He looked quite at home here, quite the agent of temptation, quite irresistible. Aziraphale hooked his leg around Crowley's and pulled him forward so that they each felt hard heat pressing insistent against their stomachs, which was the angel's way of demanding more.
Miraculously, the chaise longue that had reposed until a moment before in the nearby drawing room of a prominent member of parliament, found itself suddenly and conveniently relocated under a large palm tree in the hot house. A moment later, the beleaguered article was the recipient of a soft angelic behind as Aziraphale was pushed down onto it, wings splayed beneath him, and a lust-addled Crowley lowered himself on top.
Drunk on each other as they were, their next urgent kiss bordered on clumsy and their hands were hasty to communicate the desperation of their bodies. In their heightened state, every touch was a full-body sensation, licking in flames from the soles of their feet to the tips of their wings, making insufferable promises. Crowley knelt up and hitched Aziraphale's hips higher against his own, enjoying the feel of the decent layer of angel padding under his hands, and Aziraphale clamped his legs firmly around Crowley's waist, bracing himself against the arm of the sofa.
Crowley laughed drunkenly and let his head loll back as he entered the ruthlessly compliant Aziraphale, who arched back and rocked his pelvis forward to bring Crowley deeper.
After the initial arrhythmic writhing of fantastic first contact, the lovers falteringly found their stride and a blinding intoxication started building in waves. Aziraphale reached down to touch himself but Crowley batted his hand away - he preferred to take care of that himself. He began stroking the angel in time to his thrusts and the bucking of Aziraphale's hips, and leaned forward precariously for a difficult but nevertheless exquisite kiss.
The smooth rhythm began to jar as they came together and a dazzling climax shuddered through them, blurring their surroundings to a shimmering heat-haze and shaking awareness out of alignment.
When it had wracked through them and left the pair dazed and helpless, Crowley fell forward onto Aziraphale and Aziraphale kissed him on his sweaty head and stroked his back and his wings. They kissed again, lazily, and took their time to regain themselves.
“Smashing.” Aziraphale sighed, pleasure dripping from him like butter from a crumpet. Crowley laughed breathlessly, too well sated to give the angel's turn of phrase the mocking it called for, but concurred heartily and gave Aziraphale’s ear a nibble.
Clothes were relocated and the couple emerged, grinning foolishly, into the frost of the evening as it dissolved into night.
"Where did you say you're working at the moment?" Crowley asked absently.
"Strood."
"Strood?"
"In Kent."
"Ah. Very… pious in Kent, are they?"
"Oh, yes, very pious. More piety than you could shake a stick at.3
"Sounds dangerous to me."
"It is! They could do with a corrupting influence to test their faith. I mean, it's not much of a challenge for me, preaching to the, aha, choir, is it?"
"No, indeed. I dare say I'd be doing you a favour."
"Of course you would, my dear." Aziraphale smiled at the stars.
And so it was that the regiment were quartered in Strood for the winter, and remained there for three months, owing to a bureaucratic mix up. Similarly, due to unforeseen difficulties, a replacement was not found for the parish curate for those same three months.
There was heavy snow in the south of England that year, but no one came off too much the worse for wear. This with the exception of a few wide-eyed and jittery parakeets at Vauxhall Gardens, who had witnessed quite a scene and would never be entirely the same again.
1. The Captain was of that certain class of officer who looks good at assemblies but is rarely called upon to actually fight. This was not any fault of Crowley’s, rather, it was due to constant administrative mix ups that always ended up with the regiment being stationed in town when the season was fashionable and keeping the peace in sleepy provincial wine-producing towns all summer.
Of course, relations with the French were testy, but as Captain Crowley would be asleep for the duration of the Napoleonic Wars, that hardly concerned him.
2. He was seemingly ignorant of the fact that the noble institution of the Carry On film was not to be invented for another hundred and fifty years.
3. I am not entirely sure if they had the expression 'shake a stick at' in the 1700s, but I shall not be losing any sleep over it.
Happy Holidays, iblamebroadway, from your Secret Author!